The Things You Love You Lose
by Scribbler17
Summary: Follows the course of an evening set in the first half of Season Two showcasing Barry and Iris's perspectives in the aftermath of Eddie's death and Barry's pursuit of Patty. Two parts: Iris's thoughts and then Barry's.
1. Chapter 1

The apartment is chilly when she steps into it, somehow amplifying its sense of vacancy, even though a warmer temperature wouldn't make the room any less desolate, nor would it do anything to quell Iris's loneliness. The proof is that she's felt alone since the spring and all through the summer. There was no reason that should change just because the weather's taken a frigid turn as autumn creeps over Central City. All that would change would be her utility bill, she notes grimly, striding over to the thermostat.

Evenings like this made Iris regret refusing to take her father up on his offer that she move back in with him. He was always looking out for her, which more often than not manifested as worrying about her and thinking he knew what was best for her, but while Iris understood that nothing besides utter compassion was his motive behind wanting her home, she simply couldn't accept.

She realizes it isn't healthy, how difficult it is for her to welcome help, even if she desperately needs it. She's aware where this aversion comes from, growing up without a mother for starters. The toughness her dad instilled in her must have played a role too, as did the internalized belief that she was the only family her father had. Her best friend made clear that he was always there for her, of course, and he was as much as he could be, but even Iris knew that being the only defense Barry had when he was ostracized as the son of a murderer shaped the dynamic of their friendship in a way that made him more dependent on her for emotional support.

Iris supposes that's another reason she can't go back home: Barry. He would move out of the house in a heartbeat for her, of that she has no doubt, but she doesn't want to add another burden to his pile, and she knows there's no way they can live together again. Besides occasional summer and holiday breaks, she hasn't resided under the same roof as him since they graduated high school, and she can't shake the strangeness that the two of them sharing an address again as grown adults would trigger.

She already senses that things have never been the same between them since Christmas last year, since he professed that he'd loved her for years, since her initial shock which she eventually recovered from enough to realize that maybe she loved him for years too, since Eddie, on the brink of proposing to her, dumped her in light of a revelation that she and Barry would someday wed, since his accusation that she reciprocated Barry's feelings all along, since he place a gun to his chest and shot himself-

Perhaps, Iris heeds, things would never be the same again.

It's a bitter premise to swallow, that she and Barry can't resume their friendship as though nothing had happened, and suddenly she wants to skip dinner entirely and just head to bed. While Eddie's absence is the biggest indicator that something had definitely happened, Barry's absence was another, one that was just as damaging in Iris's view.

It had taken months, including a temporary leave from work, grief counseling, and a move to an entirely new apartment before Iris could reach the stage of acceptance and accord that she's currently in, and while she's certainly proud of the progress she's made, she knows that no length of time or coping measure could prepare her for a juncture in her life without Barry, at least without the Barry she's used to.

Initially she didn't take his distance personally, because he had pushed everyone away after the Singularity attack, citing a fear of endangering them, blaming himself for the deaths of both Eddie and Ronnie. She herself was too occupied with her own affliction to really notice, though in hindsight, she now realizes they both should have stood together during their respective calamities, as the other's best friend, as the other's family.

More than ever though, she needs him next to her now. She made her peace with Eddie's suicide just in time to deal with another turbulent direction her life had taken: the discovery that her mother is alive and simultaneously dying, along with the revelation that she's an older sister to a brother whose name she doesn't even know.

She can't turn to any casual friend for help, neither of them could begin to relate or understand. She can't confide in her colleagues at work, they already feel sorry for her after Eddie, plus she just made her comeback returning to her job full-time and feels pressure to project a recovered exterior. She can't even rely on her own father, not after he hid the truth from her for so long, and not especially when, in a twist of irony, she herself conceals his son from him.

She needs the one person whose presence and words would matter most. She needs Barry.

He too made his own progress in the battle with his traumas, and while she's definitely glad that he has, she didn't realize the Barry that emerged from his tunnel of suffering would still hold her at arm's length. Even worse, she didn't realize she would be the outlier. Indeed Barry seemed to have reengaged with everyone he withdrew from-her father, Cisco, widowed Caitlin even-everyone except for her.

It was almost as if she had also lost her best friend the moment Eddie pulled the trigger.

Iris shivers at this awareness, wrapping her cardigan around herself more tightly, even though she's about to change into pajamas. She knows Barry's distance hurts undeniably, but as much as she doesn't want to acknowledge it, she can't help that another stab of pain has to do with something else- _someone_ else.

She wonders what kind of awful friend she must be, one who isn't happy that Barry has comfort in Patty.

At first she blamed her disturbance at uncovering that Barry was seeing someone on his detachment from her-those peculiar feelings toward Patty had to be valid in light of that. She even chocked her strange reaction up to Eddie. Perhaps her bitterness had to do with her single status. It was easy to pinpoint her lack of a partner as the culprit behind her jealousy.

Deferring back to Eddie proved quite difficult however with the progression of their dating. No extent of lying to herself could convince Iris that the source of envy was Barry's relationship and not Barry's girlfriend.

It wasn't like Iris to compare herself to others, yet ever since she met her, she found herself registering all the ways Patty was superior to her, especially better than her for Barry. Patty got to be a cop because she didn't have an overbearing dad who forbid her from joining the force. Heck that same father admired her enough to agree to partnering with her, Iris notes sourly. She had a science degree, even a triple major, which had to impress Barry. And of course, she was pretty, certainly someone he would find attractive in a way he could never deem the girl he grew up with. She pictures Barry and Patty solving thrilling crimes together by day and romancing each other by night while she sits at a desk for hours at work only to come home to an empty apartment made to seem emptier thanks to her vivid imagination.

Iris sighs, braving the frigid air in her bedroom to peel her clothes off. One drawback to her new apartment building is the poor ventilation, but she supposes it's better than being roommates with the ghost of Eddie had she opted to stay at his place. She lets everything drop to the floor as she strips, doesn't even bother to drape her skirt over the chair, let alone fold it neatly. She'll regret it when she sees that wrinkles have settled in and has to haul out the iron board, but she can't bring herself to care at the moment.

It was one of those nights when all she wanted to do was drift off, to be as awake for as little time as possible, to end the dreary day and usher in a new one. Sleep was the only relief from her current troubles, the only way she could halt her miserable rumination, at least temporarily. She slips into the first pajamas she gets a hold of and after a shoddy teeth brushing, climbs into bed.

If any element other than cold could manage to make Iris feel more alone, it was darkness. Switching her light off seemed to switch on all her solicitous thoughts again, particularly those about Barry. Missing her best friend, especially when she needs him is one thing, but Iris ponders if she's missing and needing him for reasons she shouldn't be.

Is she allowed to want Barry in that way? While he's with Patty? After she stayed with Eddie? She supposes from his perspective, her relationship with Eddie looked exactly like his relationship with Patty did to her: rejection.

Did she even want Barry in that way?

She knows she wanted him when she caught a glimpse of him dressing after a hasty shower at STAR Labs this afternoon before heading back to the precinct. She didn't mean to see, only happened to turn around as he was pulling his shirt over his head. She especially didn't mean to keep looking, but for some reason, she found herself fixated on his stomach, on the etch of his muscles there, on the dark hairs diverging down his navel and the way they held tiny droplets of water that caught the light.

She only snapped out of her daze when she registered someone calling her name, and embarrassed, realized that someone was Barry, furrowing his brows at her before she hurriedly turned away, her face heated at having been caught staring at him.

At least here in the seclusion of her bedroom, in the privacy of her head, Iris doesn't have to hide how provoked she was by a brief view of such a simple detail. Eddie is once more a convenient justification. She tries to rationalize her arousal: she hasn't had sex in months, she's lonely after losing her boyfriend. She would have felt a powerful longing had she seen any man's exposed skin, wouldn't she? It just happened to be Barry, and he just happened to be freshly cleaned, and it happened to make him seem more alluring to her in that moment.

She didn't want Barry-she just yearned for someone to hold her again, to touch her again.

Well-she _does_ want Barry, but not like that. She wants her best friend back. She misses his jokes, and his smiles, and his hugs, which especially started to feel distinct after his Christmas confession. Somehow since then, whenever they've hugged, she's wanted to stay a little bit longer in his arms and she's always a little disappointed when he lets go. She reminisces on the last time she hugged him, after leaping from Baldwin Tower into his arms, trusting that he would catch her. For a moment, he had almost seemed like the Barry she remembered, her Bear who dropped everything for her, ran to her, laughed with her. The rush of exhilaration she had felt as he raced her to safety was incomparable to anything she'd ever experienced, and she's certain it's not just because she was practically flying, but because she was flying with him. He was wrapped around her, pressed so close to her that she sensed every strike of his heart as though it were beating in unison with hers.

She's back to thinking about his abdomen, the trail of hair, those little water drops. Iris licks her lips instinctively at the memory. She wants her mouth there and lower, wants to make his muscles tighten and writhe and flush from his heart pulsing as quickly as it was when it was thudding against her chest as he held her.

Her mind latches onto this portrait while she turns over on her stomach, moves her hands downward, slips them beneath her.

 _Dammit Iris,_ she chastises herself. It's hard to use Eddie as a cover while she's touching herself to thoughts of Barry. _Whatever, grief is complicated,_ she decides in an attempt to put her conscience at ease.

Servicing herself after a long time is odd. She hasn't been this enticed since being with Eddie. On some days after he died, she'd even resolved herself to the belief that she was too dispirited and damaged to ever be kindled again, yet here she was, vitalized, throbbing pleasantly, fervid with an impatience that she knew she had to relieve and that only Barry, in this instant, could alleviate.

And assuage and arouse her he did, at least in her head. Iris strokes herself in breathless bliss to the image of his body, his tousled hair, his freckled skin. She considers what his bared cock might look like. Perhaps long and thin like he was, and she actually laughs into her pillow at the picture, until the picture of him taut and erect for her, no matter how slender he might be sends her trickling down her thighs.

She's still seeping when her thoughts wander to the sparkle of his eyes, the roguish tilt to his smile, the vision of him over her, gazing down at her, slowly thrusting into her. She's sure his lashes would twinkle and his smile would be lost to his lips parting.

He would look so pretty.

 _Pretty Bear,_ she marvels. _My Bear-_ and then she's palming herself more urgently, and it's this final vision, the prospect of him realizing ecstasy through her that finally has her shuddering, has her flesh spasming between her fingers-once, twice, over and over again...

When she finishes, she's breathing heavily. She turns back over with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling, more relaxed now, but simultaneously wondering again if she should feel guilty for climaxing to thoughts of Barry this soon after Eddie. _I'm grieving,_ she tries to convince herself once more.

She decides to wash away her guilt, quite literally, rolling out of bed and making her way to the bathroom to clean herself off. After she's freshened up, she's taken aback by her reflection in the mirror. She figured she'd look dewey after working up a sweat, but her cheeks are rosy, and she's glowing in a way that alerts her to just how long heartache must have been her primary temperament, for her to be this surprised at some visible livelihood in her face.

Iris recognizes it's silly, but she can't suppress a smile at herself, and for the first time in a while, she feels content, and even better, optimistic. Suddenly she's confident that she and Barry can mend their friendship, they can go back to the way things were, and that promise fills her with such relief. She can't believe they've gone this long with this kind of tension between them, they're _Barry and Iris_ for fuck's sake, they've been best friends for almost two decades, knew each other better than anyone else, shared years and years of joy and pain, but what mattered was that it was always together, that they would find their way back to each other. She can't recall the last time she allowed herself to hope, and it's better than she remembered.

 _The power of orgasm_ , she muses, or perhaps- _the power of Barry._

With this newfound buoyancy, Iris practically leaps back into bed, the thrill of motivation coursing through her. While she does hesitate, deliberating over this next move, she resolves herself to the conviction that if she wants to reconcile with him, she would have to do her part, and that meant reaching out. She would call Barry now, suggest they go to Jitters sometime this week to catch up over coffee and treats. It would be just like old times. She'd let him know how much she had missed him, meaning it with every breath she took to tell him and more. Iris reaches for her phone, her heart galloping in anticipation-

-and that's when she catches sight of her news feed and sees that Patty's shared a photograph of her and Barry. Patty snapped the photo, judging from her seated position slightly ahead of Barry. Both of them are positively beaming, with Patty leaning her head against Barry's shoulder. She must have had excellent timing too, managing to capture them in what looks like candid mid-laughter. Iris notes the sun setting behind them and that's when she knows they were on the Jitters rooftop. She would recognize that backdrop anywhere. There's no caption accompanying the picture, as though Patty wanted it to speak for itself, and it was posted approximately seventeen minutes ago, already having amassed forty-three 'Likes', Barry included, and several comments gushing about how cute the two of them are together.

A wretched jealousy douses Iris, and where her pulse had just been racing excitedly, it now pounds for entirely different reasons. She feels shame so great that she has to exit the app and turn her phone over facedown, as though Barry and Patty were laughing at her through her screen. Anyone would crack up at how pathetic she is, fucking herself to thoughts of Barry fucking her while he most likely lay in Patty's bed this very moment, and if Barry was ready to sleep with her, then surely he was ready to confide in her about his identity, a secret he'd kept from Iris for months. That he had taken Patty to the Jitters rooftop to watch the sunset, a regular tradition belonging to them, something she and Barry had yet to do since The Flash rebuilt Jitters, feels like another blow.

She can't do anything to stop the tears, even if she hates how pitiful they make her. _I'm grieving,_ she tries again persuasively. _I'm grieving, I'm grieving,_ but even she knows this isn't grief anymore, can't be anything other than pure envy and worse, loneliness, because even though it would hurt, she knows she could learn to tolerate Barry with another woman, but not like this. Not if it came at the expense of her own relationship with him. That was the worst part about him and Patty: Iris is paying the price, and she sobs more frantically at this discernment.

Eventually, Iris calms down to the point of silent weeping. She sits up steadily, bending over to open the third drawer of her nightstand, where she keeps some of her special possessions, her journals and her jewelry, including the ring Eddie intended to propose to her with and the band Barry gifted her last Christmas.

What results from her now more composed disposition is another delusional attempt at placation, that the reason she's so disturbed by all of this is Eddie. There's even a petty, bitter part of her using Eddie as retaliation, because she knows Barry used to covet his place. Maybe not anymore, she heeds sadly, but he used to. She misses Eddie terribly, she does, that part isn't a lie to appease herself, but now, even when the tears streaming down her face fall for Barry, she exploits Eddie as an evasion once more, avoiding the true source of her emotion because she can't admit it to herself.

 _It's grief_ , she repeats. _It's all just grief._

She's still trying to convince herself of that even though the ring she reaches for and places on her finger is Barry's.


	2. Chapter 2

Barry collapses facedown onto the pillows, panting wildly, every exhalation more zealous than the last. Even more avid is his heartbeat against his sternum, such that he actually presses a hand to his chest, as though hoping to ease its frantic pace. The skin beneath his palm is heated and damp with perspiration, not unlike what he feels when peeling his suit off after a particularly strenuous enterprise as The Flash.

He can't share this with Patty though.

He closes his eyes while his respirations tame, aware that his current physiology is not only a consequence of sex, but of the laborious effort it took not to accidentally reveal himself during sex. He hadn't slept with a girl in years, and as he and Patty stumbled into her bedroom, he had briefly considered what might ensue if he lost control of himself, but Barry was pleased to discover he had better command of his body since Linda.

That doesn't mean he isn't drained though. He likes Patty, he likes her a lot, but he's not sure he's ready to divulge his alter-ego just yet. Even if he wants to share his secret with her, he definitely doesn't want to disclose it _that_ way.

Despite the ringing in his ears, he makes out a muffled giggle beside him.

"That good, huh?"

Barry rolls over to face Patty, joining in her laughter. With her lazy smile, her flushed cheeks, and the way her eyes seem to sparkle under the glow of the bedside lamp, she probably looks the prettiest he's ever seen her look, and he's sure it's not just because endorphins are circulating throughout his brain. It had been so long that he'd almost forgotten how intoxicating sex could be, and tonight he's reminded that the exhilaration running affords him doesn't compare to the rapture that sex does.

"It's been a while," Barry admits aloud with a sheepish grin.

Patty giggles again.

"Well, I couldn't tell," she teases, a suggestive tilt to her lips as she edges closer to nestle against him.

Barry's fairly certain she could tell, and he would almost rather she chuckle along to his confession than try to flirt to appease him, but nonetheless he accepts her offer to snuggle, snaking his arms around her figure to hold her close.

 _This is nice_ , he thinks, reveling in the warmth and softness of Patty's skin. A paper Iris read to him during her graduate school studies about the impact of physical contact comes to mind, and he's struck with how little touch he's been subject to for quite some time now. He expects he should be used to it by now, having grown up with a dead mother, a jailed father, and only a handful of romantic encounters, but the fact of the matter is that he still isn't accustomed to it. Joe's hugs were exceptional and a worthy substitute for the lack of parental affection in his life, and every time Iris so much as pat him on the back, Barry believed nothing could ever plague him again-

But he and Iris aren't exactly speaking regularly, let alone touching. In fact, they may as well not be speaking at all, and deep down, Barry knows that this is the source of most if not all of his current heartache, nothing that an orgasm could alleviate, no matter how good.

Worse is the recollection that the last person Barry had touched and kissed before Patty was Iris. The incident isn't any less real to him just because it only exists in his memory.

A fresh wave of loneliness washes over him at this realization, and his grip on Patty tightens.

Patty squeezes him back, and Barry's roused from his thoughts. He was under the impression that she had fallen asleep, and he can't seem to shake the slight disappointment that she hasn't, only because sometimes he finds himself at standstills with her, unsure of what to discuss next.

It's true that her companionship has been a surprising breath of fresh air at CCPD these last few months. As much as Barry loves his job, it's difficult not to feel like an outsider among the officers in uniform. Before Patty, he didn't have many friends at the precinct. The claim that Barry was the only police department employee with a science education background wasn't an exaggeration: it was a fact until Patty came along, one that kept him from connecting meaningfully with his colleagues who mostly saw him as an assistant to summon as needed instead of an equal.

Now he had someone to lunch with (besides Joe of course) who not only willingly listened to his dense forensic reports, but understood them enough to even contribute her own input. The best part was that she admired his technique and appreciated the meticulous demand of his work where so many of his coworkers undervalued him, dismissing his job as simple in comparison to what "real" police work entailed. _Wish I could dally in a lab all day like you do Allen,_ he was taunted recently, _but I have to protect the city._

After that, Barry didn't need anymore convincing from Joe or Cisco to ask Patty out.

As much as he enjoyed theorizing with her about everything from explosion dynamics of a post-blast scene to possible cosmetics transferred during personal attacks (they ended up making out during that discussion, Patty intentionally smearing her lipstick all over him), he was learning quickly that it was quite difficult to find much else to converse with Patty about, despite their shared interests. He had wondered initially if this would somehow be resolved once they had sex, as though making love was a magical remedy to any relationship hurdle, yet here they were lying in bed together, skin to skin, Barry desperately searching for something to say when he would much rather be asleep.

Another consideration crosses his mind: perhaps this is to be expected of any relationship of his from now on until he reveals himself. He can easily attribute the awkward silences that often transpire between the two of them to Patty's oblivion to his alternate lifestyle. It's certainly a plausible culprit behind why he can't talk to her at times: he's hiding an entire part of himself from her, a second identity he assumes daily.

Except then he remembers that Iris had been unaware of that identity for months too, and during the course of those months, he could still talk her ears off, as long as she would listen to him.

Then he recalls another difference: more than anyone else, he had wanted to tell Iris who he really was. Once more, he's not sure he can say the same for Patty.

If he trusts her enough to sleep with her, shouldn't he trust her enough to share his life with her, every aspect of it, encompassing Barry Allen to The Flash? But Barry is cognizant of the answer to that: Patty can't blame him for the Singularity Attack if she doesn't know he's The Flash, can't blame him for wreaking havoc on the City, can't blame him for Ronnie and Eddie. Telling Patty would force him to confront what happened, would shatter the guise of why he's avoiding Iris. With Patty, he found solace in someone without guilt looming over him.

He would do anything for a shred of solace these days.

He also can't deny the role Thawne plays in his struggle to find peace. He hates admitting the influence Thawne has over him, but he can't escape him, despite finally seeking justice for his father. Thawne's ominous promise that he would never secure happiness still haunts him, and seemed to come true merely days after his confession. His dad was freed from Iron Heights only to leave him, because all he needed was to lose someone else.

It's difficult to prove Thawne wrong, especially when Barry knows in the depth of his heart that he can never be happy with the current state of his relationship with Iris.

But at least with Patty, he can try.

"Thanks for taking me to the Jitters rooftop to watch the sunset," Patty sounds, nuzzling her nose into Barry's neck, diverting him from his musings again.

Barry had almost forgotten that had happened today. Indeed it felt as though much more than several hours had passed since then.

"I'm so glad The Flash fixed it up again," Patty continues beneath him (Barry squirms nervously at that). "Best view of the city. Don't you think?"

A memory of Iris marveling the same thing years ago materializes. As occurred during too many rooftop sunsets to count, Barry remembers being so close to spilling the contents of his heart as he watched her: _Not as good as my view._

He clears his throat, trying to seem casual. "The best," he agrees. "I used to go there with Iris all the time. It was kind of our place…"

His voice trails at his effortless use of past tense. He never used the past to characterize Iris ever. That he just referred to her as though she were of a former time unleashes in him a panicked unease. Iris is his present, his constant, his life.

 _Is she?_ his conscience poses to him. _When was the last time you even met her for coffee to even meet her on the roof?_

 _Too long,_ Barry admits. _Far far too long._ Had things gotten this bad? He can't remember a time where he had ever gone so long with so much tension and so little communication with Iris.

This time, Barry's stomach interrupts his rumination, its growl inconspicuous, the effect of his effortful movements during sex finally hitting him in the form of audible hunger.

Patty laughs at him before Barry has the chance to feel bashful.

"I regret to inform you that I'm in desperate need of groceries," she imitates in a tone of mock formality. "But I have some boxed mac and cheese if you'd like," she offers, once she notices that Barry doesn't react to her attempt at humor.

"No thanks," Barry declines. "I cant eat any of that stuff after tasting Iris's mac and cheese. Hers is the quintessential mac and cheese for me." He winces at the mention of Iris again, even if both times he's been the one to bring her up.

"One bite of my Grandma Patricia's mac and cheese will have you believing otherwise."

Barry sincerely doubts that.

"Was it weird living with Joe and Iris as a kid?"

"Weird?" He frowns. "Why would it be weird?"

"Like how would you ever bring a girl over?" Patty ponders, and he can tell she she finds such a prospect amusing. This bothers him for some reason.

"I'm not sure what you mean," he replies in earnest.

"Oh come on," Patty giggles, swatting him playfully. "In high school, how did your girlfriends spend the night with your female best friend just down the hall? That _had_ to be awkward."

"Um," Barry fumbles to find the best way to respond without revealing that any dates he went on as a teenager were actually sources of much tension and anxiety for him, for not quite the reason she's suggesting, but somewhat so.

Things were awkward because any girl he dated always seemed to deduce that who he really wanted was his female best friend just down the hall.

"Well, first off, no girls ever slept over," he answers truthfully. "Joe would have probably pulled out his handgun and shot me if they did."

"He seems the type," Patty acknowledges, entertained.

"And second, anyone who thought it was strange that I lived with Iris wasn't really someone I would be interested in anyway," he chuckles, like she should recognize this as obvious. "Iris was my family. _Is_ my family," he corrects with haste, conscious of his use of past tense again.

"That's valid," Patty concurs. "I mean, she's like your sister!"

Barry makes a face, irritated now. "Iris is not like my sister-"

"Is she always so…sad?" Patty carries on, heedless of his annoyance. "Every time I try to make conversation with her, it's like misery _radiates_ off her-"

 _"_ She watched her boyfriend kill himself!" Barry defends, his voice rising indignantly.

Taken aback by his outburst, Patty lets go of him. She sits up carefully, clutching the blanket to her bare chest.

"I didn't realize…I had no idea," she apologizes weakly.

Barry sighs, running a palm through his hair, regretting his quick temper, even if Patty could have been more polite when pointing out Iris's affect.

"It's okay, you didn't know," he softens. "Sorry I lashed out. I guess I'm just protective of her," he justifies as an excuse, but it's not exactly false.

Patty nods, though still visibly tense. "Of course you would be." Slowly, she lays back down facing him, only she doesn't reach for him again.

Barry exhales, willing to admit to himself that the reason he was so bothered wasn't the reality behind Patty's words. He shouldn't be angry at her for indicating what anyone could plainly see: Iris's morose disposition was so blatant that even Patty who had only just met her took note of it. His agitation stems from the reminder that he hasn't been there for Iris, that he was probably contributing to her depression.

For so long he had convinced himself that Iris wouldn't ever want anything to do with him again. And why would she, after he was responsible for the death of the man she loved? He couldn't bring himself to look her in the eye on some days, let alone spend time with her one-on-one. His shame was so great that he even wondered if Iris preferred that he have died instead of Eddie. That he loved her like Eddie did was just another wound, and that she had admitted her love to him in a now nonexistent timeline was an added twist to the entire complication.

It was only when Joe eventually cornered him to demand what the hell was going on that Barry first realized his distance was hurting Iris.

"Please, Bear," Joe had urged "She needs you."

"I can't be there for her, Joe," he had wept. "Not when I did this to her."

"Barry, the only thing you did to her is what you're doing to her right now."

"You know," Patty starts, propping herself up on one elbow, sidetracking him for a third time. Barry takes note of the forced nonchalance in her tone and figures she's opted to pretend their prior exchange never happened.

"I have a friend who would be really interested in Iris," she contemplates, and that's when he realizes she's not pretending at all, and is possibly under the impression that matchmaking Iris with someone would be the answer to her melancholy.

Barry doesn't say anything, trying to ignore the tiny pang of envy that rises at picturing Iris with another man, hoping Patty drops the subject-

"-he's an associate at this huge law firm and he's SUCH a great guy, they would be perfect for each other actually-"

He closes his eyes. Maybe Patty would think he fell asleep and would stop talking-

"Last week, out of curiosity, I even linked her profile to him and he thinks she's really hot-"

"Patty!" Barry huffs fiercely, abruptly rising, cutting her off her mid-sentence. She looks stunned once again, only this time Barry doesn't apologize.

"Iris doesn't need to date someone right now. Sure, she could if she wanted to, and that's for her to decide, but do you really think that's the best thing to suggest to someone who's still struggling to come to grips with witnessing their significant other shoot himself? You don't think that's a little insensitive?"

Patty blinks, clearly not having anticipated this reaction.

"I'm only trying to-I didn't know this happened recently-"

"You were just talking about how _sad_ she seems, like she's _radiating_ misery," he berates her, using her exact words, and Patty at least has the shame to look down. "So your solution is to hook her up with some big-shot lawyer you know?"

"No, I just thought-"

"Just-don't talk about Iris, okay?" he scolds. "You don't know what she's been through. You don't know her like I do."

"Alright…" Patty concedes timidly. "All I wanted was to bond with her because she's so important to you." She seems to consider her next words before uttering them: "I guess you really are protective of her."

He's well-aware of the implication there, but he doesn't console or counter her, too preoccupied with Iris to care about Patty's feelings at the moment.

Was his anger about her insensitivity to Iris, or his own? He didn't snap out of jealousy-maybe to some extent he did-but the real source of his scorn is the grasp that Iris does need someone right now, and that someone is him. Joe was right: she needs his companionship, his support, his attention, and he registers right then and there, in bed with Patty, how much Iris is hurting because of him. He realizes the extent he let his shame come in between them, when there was nothing more disgraceful than abandoning a friend in need. He allowed the magnitude of his insecurities to overwhelm him and further himself from her. He chose to protect his own feelings, and suddenly, he's horrified that he put himself before Iris. He thinks of how alone she must feel night after night in her apartment after losing the man she loved, he thinks of how he made her pain about him instead. How many more times was he going to hurt her?

All at once, a terrible concern for her consumes him.

"I have to call her," he insists frantically.

"What?"

Barry kicks the covers away and staggers out of Patty's bed.

"I have to call her…" he repeats absentmindedly, scanning the room for his discarded clothes.

"You're going to call Iris?" Patty quizzes. "Right now?"

Barry locates his boxer shorts and hurriedly stumbles into them. He doesn't need to face Patty to know that she's glowering at him: he can practically feel her eyes on his naked back.

Sure enough, he meets Patty's glare when he turns around.

"I need to talk to her," he reiterates. He jerks his chin toward her nightstand where his phone is plugged to charge and out of his reach.

Patty's mouth is pressed shut when she hands it to him.

"Tell her I say hi," she states dryly, laying back down to face the wall.

Once he exits the room to the hallway, Barry exhales, passing a hand over his face in exasperation. He didn't mean to anger Patty, and now he regrets ever agreeing to come over to her place at all. After what just ensued, he finds it unsettling that he's stuck here until morning, more specifically stuck in her bed. For a bizarre second, he wonders if he should sleep on her couch, or even go home altogether, but then he figures that would make matters worse. He never anticipated their first night together would culminate in this.

He would deal with Patty later, promising to resolve things with her afterwards. Right now, he needed to resolve things with Iris, needed to check up on her, to make sure she was okay.

He steps into the living room and feels across the walls for a light switch, giving up after a few minutes. He's been to Patty's place enough times to at least make out where the sofa is in the dark, and he plops onto it, the leather sharply cool against the skin of his back. It's quicker for him to dial Iris's number than it is for him to fish it out of his contacts: it's the first cell phone number he ever memorized in high school years ago, even before his own.

The ringback tone sounds four times, Barry's pulse accelerating with each ring.

"Hello?"

It's heavy with drowsiness, but her voice is the best sound he's heard all week. One word from her is enough for all the events of the disastrous night to evaporate, enough for relief to pool through him instead, and even though she can't see it, it's enough to force the corners of his lips upward.

"Hey, Iris."

"Barry," she remarks, sounding more alert now, and he can picture her getting up, can see the concern etched into her exquisite face. "Is everything okay?"

Here the reality of the situation hits him: how can everything be okay at the state of their relationship? How can it be okay when he misses her more than he can stomach? How can they be okay if he can't even bring himself to lie and pretend they are?

"I just-wanted to see how you're doing," he manages.

"How _I'm_ doing?" she chuckles in light disbelief. "I should be asking you that if you're calling me in the middle of the night."

Oh. He supposes that is true.

He chortles at himself, but the real reason he's smiling is because Iris's laugh, no matter the length or context, is like honey, and scratch what he just deduced about her voice being the sweetest thing he's heard all week-her laugh is.

Still, Barry forces himself to snap out of his trance.

"Yeah-yeah, I'm fine," he stammers, partly due to nerves and partly because he's half-naked shivering in the chill of Patty's living room. "Actually-I wanted to know if we could grab coffee tomorrow," he blurts.

"And you needed to call me at 2 AM to know that?"

Barry curses himself internally, aware of how ridiculous and impulsive he must seem. Had he waited until tomorrow like any normal person would have, he wouldn't have baffled Iris, upset Patty, or embarrassed himself.

He could crack a joke right now about how he called her as early as possible because he wanted to catch her before she drank her own coffee in the morning, considering the extent of her coffee obsession, he's never too sure what comes first for her, toothpaste or a latte. He could make her laugh, he would do anything to listen to that laugh…

But he doesn't because this isn't a joke to him, and nothing is more somber than what he needs to tell her, and he isn't here to amuse, he's here to atone.

He takes a deep breath: "I'm sorry. I-I'm calling because-I'm really worried about you, Iris."

"Wha-"

"Please," he interrupts. "Please, Iris. I'm worried about you. I've been a shit friend who's been completely distant, absent even I would say. You've been dealing with so much all by yourself because of me. I put myself before you, and…I'm so sorry."

It isn't the most thorough apology, given the magnitude of everything they've dealt with apart, nor does it encompass all he wants to say to her let alone everything she deserves to hear, but it's something. More than anything, it's the start of the first genuine and likely the most crucial conversation he's had with her in months.

It's silent on the other end of the line save for her breathing. Barry can't tell how much time passes before she finally speaks.

"Barry," she murmurs, and he makes out the tears clouding his name. It's poignant-the contrast between the ease her laugh elicits and the sting her crying provokes.

"I'm so sorry, Iris," he echoes, tearing up himself at what he's done to her, and perhaps those are the only words he has, and maybe the only ones she needs.

She sniffs and doesn't say anything for a few moments longer until-

"I missed you so much."

And he knows that's code for, _I forgive you_.

He probably doesn't deserve it, but goddammit, he's going to take it, because he missed her too, misses her now, so much that he aches to be next to her and he even contemplates flashing over to her this very second-

But something about visiting her after a night with Patty doesn't sit right with him. It's the same unrest he's always felt, the same thing the girls from high school and beyond somehow always detected: no matter who he's with, he would always rather be with Iris.

"Are you still there, Bear?"

He shakes himself out of his stupor again, pleased more than he ought to be at her fond use of his nickname. He hasn't heard it from her in so long, and it feels like an offer of reconciliation, a sign that things are going to be okay.

"I'm here, Iris," he reassures her. Then more solemnly: "I'm always going to be here."

"And to answer your pressing question, yes, I'm down to grab coffee tomorrow," Iris giggles, and it fills Barry with a kind of warmth that laying next to Patty didn't.

"Jitters?" she probes.

"Did you really just ask that?" he teases.

They both chuckle, and Barry is more relaxed and satisfied than he's been in months, confident that he can fix what he broke-

"I saw that you took Patty to the rooftop."

Her voice is so small he almost didn't hear her, but he does hear her, in all her timidness. His smile vanishes around the same time his heart starts to thud, in fact, he's certain at the exact equivalent moment, he's a Speedster after all, he can perceive these things. Instantly, he feels hot for reasons entirely separate from Iris's laugh.

"I-did," he recites carefully, not sure what turn the conversation is taking, or why she chose to bring Patty up right now. It sounds like an accusation more than a harmless comment, and there's a peculiar sense of guilt on his end, and on hers an impression of… _jealousy?_

 _No._ Barry halts himself, refusing to run down that track ever again. He doesn't think he can risk feeling that kind of disappointment even just one more time, and besides, his priority is Iris's occupation in his life no matter in what capacity. He doesn't need her to love him, he just needs her to let him love her, and he will, however she wants him to.

He forces a slight cough. "Yeah, we went because it's all new now, with the whole grand re-opening, you know," he continues as indifferently as he can muster, wondering if she can somehow discern how swiftly his heart is pumping.

The ensuing stillness has Barry questioning if the line disconnected, but then Iris breaks the silence: "I'm glad you have her, Barry."

Memories he's held onto and treasured for the last year flash before him. Iris clutching his jacket with desperation- _The reason that I couldn't stop thinking about you was because I didn't want to._ A newspaper byline- _Iris West-Allen._ On the very roof he stood atop hours ago- _I have been thinking about you. About us._ And of course, unforgettable forever- _her lips_.

 _Having her means nothing if I don't have you,_ he aches to confess.

He swallows. "I'm glad I have her too."

Iris sighs on the other end, and Barry detects a hint of finality. "Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

He notices that she's deflated again, and he's uncertain what to make of it. What he is certain of is that he desperately wants to elicit a smile from her before she hangs up.

"Iris?" he sounds.

"Yeah?"

"The Flash rebuilt Jitters for one person, and he did that before he met Patty."

Even though he can't see her, he has a hunch she's beaming.


End file.
